


Finding Magnus

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: 2x11, Aftermath of Torture, Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Bodyswap, Burns, Cats, Domestic Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt Alec, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jace Wayland Deserves Nice Things, Jace Wayland Feels, Jace Wayland Needs A Hug, Jace Wayland Plays the Piano, Jace Wayland is a Herondale, M/M, Magnus Bane & Jace Wayland Friendship, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Malace, Multi, OT3, POV Magnus Bane, Parabatai Feels, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Polyamory, Protective Alec Lightwood, Protective Magnus Bane, Recovery, Serious Injuries, Valentine is very bad, Warning for Valentine's A+Parenting, post 2x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: It was like being body slammed by a rancor. Personally, Magnus thinks more people should try it.





	Finding Magnus

**Author's Note:**

> AN: The post 2x10 reaction story I’m posting almost a year late? Rancors are a creature from Star Wars, sort of a cross between a bull and rhino. Knowledge of them is not important to this story. Some disturbing content, please mind the tags.

It was like being body slammed by a rancor. Magnus blames his boyfriend’s annoying parabatai entirely for this mental analogy, late night Star Wars marathons a semi-permanent fixture since he acquired his roommate. 

Although, Jace’s good taste in refusing to acknowledge the prequels, combined with the boy’s lack of nightmares on nights when the Jedi have graced their living room, is more than enough reason for Magnus to have kept that particular habit to himself, safely out of reach of any potential teasing. 

He’s still trying to work out the logistics of thinking of it as their living room. 

None of which is important in this moment, the breath stunned from his lungs by the hot, wet lump buried against his jacket. Except when it is the only thing that is important, because Alec’s fingers are still tangled carefully with his own, his boyfriend pressed flush against his side, the words I love you dancing around their heads like a swarm of very happy and very surreal bees. 

And then reality crashes painfully in, when entering the Institute becomes a dangerous activity, as a crying shadowhunter dive bombs Magnus before he can even take in the room fully. 

Jace, and it is Jace, his sweater and sweat combo painfully familiar, but at least he has shoes this time. Jace is somehow aware enough to throw himself at Magnus’ free side, hands curled into half fists grasping at the back of his jacket, fingers strangely open. Magnus lets his relief mingle with his surprise, lets the memory of a golden eyed child so desperate to save people he is willing to turn himself into a martyr without a thought, if only it meant he could prove he wasn’t the weapon his father groomed him to be, lets that memory wash away in the face of Jace alive and breathing. 

The bees are still there, the euphoria fading but not gone, and Alec’s huffed out “Jace, let him breath” snap his annoyance into place over that relief. 

Magnus pulls back, still carefully because why weren’t those fingers grasping, because something is wrong. “Really Blondie, as happy as I am to see that you survived your latest attempt to be a martyr, this is rather forward don’t you think. At least buy me a drink fir-“ 

The familiar tease is cut off along with Magnus’ breath as Jace draws back far enough to reveal his eyes, his swimming eyes, and Magnus feels his chest seize because Alec is here, is whole and well and warm, his heart beating, and Magnus has only ever seen one thing make this boy who tries so hard to pretend he is invincible cry. 

Magnus has seen many people at their worst. He’s seen desperate, seen wounded, seen broken and keening, seen dead and beyond dead, seen in hell, seen beyond hell. He’s seen Jace broken, thrown out, homeless, hurting. He thought he’d seen it all. 

Something is very wrong. Magnus feels his eyes flash “Jace, what-“ Jace flinches back, further puzzling Magnus. His flinch turns into a stumble as his feet-thankfully boot-clad-hit something slightly squishy, and that’s when Magnus notices the bodies. Emphasis on the plural. 

The entire tactical center looks like…well, it looks like a massacre has taken place. 

Magnus feels his mind go blank. Everywhere he looks, dead downworlders seem to glare back at him, emphasizing how he failed, how he failed to protect them. 

Magnus feels his heart seize, because what if Raphael has been in here, who had been in here, who had he known. 

For a moment, Magnus forgets Jace altogether. Alec’s hand is tight on his, the blood flow diminished to a barely felt coldness. 

Magnus doesn’t move his head, doesn’t so much as twitch. “Where is Clarissa?” His tone actually makes Alec flinch, but it is Jace’s frantic keening that really catches Magnus’ attention. 

The boy is huddled in an honest to goodness ball on the floor, his eyes ripping from their vacant stare at the lifeless feet tangled with his legs to look up at Magnus, his pupils wide and pleading, his cheeks somehow dry of blood or tears. 

“No! Magnus, it wasn’t her! It wasn’t Clary!” It should sound strong, should sound loud. All Magnus hears is desperation. Is pain. Alec’s fingers somehow tighten further. 

Jace scrambles forward until he’s actually on his knees at their feet. His voice cracks, but he gets the words out. It sounds painful. “Clary didn’t activate the sword.” Magnus knows what’s coming somehow, knows where this is going, but he lets Jace say it anyway. Later, he will wonder if this is the cruelest he’s ever been. 

“I did it.” Jace swallows, his eyes never leaving Magnus’, carefully not looking at Alec. “I activated the soul sword.” Magnus feels his glamour fall, his eyes flashing. Jace’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“I have angel blood. Pure angel blood.” 

The first time he met Jace Wayland, Magnus found it very easy to dislike him. He was the embodiment of every stereotype Nephilim had ever used to assert their superiority over downworlders, golden, handsome, like an angel of vengeance. Arrogant, full of himself, superior. 

Since Valentine entered the picture, that image had been quite hard to hold on to. Aldertree pretty much crumbled it completely, made Magnus look at Jace and suddenly see Jem Carstairs, unbroken in the face of brokenness, made him look at the boy and somehow see Will Herondale, his resigned and teary “It’s alright Alec” before sacrificing himself for his parabatai yet again shattering something in Magnus he had forgotten existed. 

Not liking Jace was easy once, until it wasn’t. Magnus told himself it was the boy’s almost downworlder status that made it so easy to give him a place to stay, that made him pause slightly at how eager Alec was to dismiss his parabatai’s concerns as petty, as immaterial, as incomprehensible. 

Jace’s words should change everything, should let the old dislike come back in full, should solidify everything he’d ever thought about Jace’s status as the quintessential shadowhunter. 

Magnus is pulled from his thoughts by the end of Jace’s words hitting him in the face like a slap.  
“Valentine lied.” Valentine, not father. Magnus lets his eyes run around the room, takes in the carnage, the shattered scene somehow reflecting in the soul burning behind the mismatched eyes still locked on his face. 

It has been maybe five hours since Magnus watched Jace prepare to kill himself to save everyone that everyone around him loved. To save Clary’s boyfriend, to save Alec’s boyfriend, to save Izzy’s friends. To save them all. Five hours since he didn’t even try to talk Alec’s parabatai out of it. 

Magnus feels his anger die, his free hand slacking from a fist, his grip on Alec’s hand turning from death like to reassuring squeeze. Even now, Jace is still loud. “Magnus, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I thought it would work.” The words continue to stumble out in broken fragments, and Magnus lets them wash over him without really hearing. 

Alec is strangely still at his side, just as he was unmoving when Jace had thrown himself through the doorway to collide with Magnus. Alec’s desperate face floats through his mind. Magnus squeezes his eyes shut, pulls Alec closer to him. 

Jace’s tears are audible, the sob hitching his breath. “I’m sorry Alec.” Magnus’ eyes squeeze tighter. 

Warlocks don’t get arthritis, but Magnus swears he feels something twinge painfully as his knees hit the floor, Alec following his lead as Magnus prayed he would. 

Edging towards Jace proves to be harder than he thought, the boy flinching back with each apology, his eyes darting desperately between Alec and Magnus and the bodies, his hands still curled oddly in his lap. 

It’s even harder one handed, but Magnus manages it eventually, his arm clamping firmly around Jace’s shoulders, dragging the shivering ball to rest against his chest, sweaty blond strands brushing his chin. It takes a moment for Alec’s free arm to connect with his against Jace’s back, and Magnus feels something in his heart crack even as their other set of fingers interlocks, trapping Jace’s shivering form carefully between them like a demented, suicidal sandwich. 

The apologies have become muffled against Magnus’ jacket collar, the words “He lied” repeating intermittently, the shaking showing no signs of lessening.

Magnus wishes everything could be fixed with a cocktail. He wishes he could be anywhere but here, surrounded by the bodies of his friends, cradling a shadowhunter with pure angel blood to his chest. 

Jace shifts slightly, perhaps attempting to pull away. Alec’s voice sounds harsh in the stillness of the hall. 

“Just cut it out Jace.” It’s all Magnus can do to hold the boy through the newest flinch, his magic flaring warmly around them. The breath of blue coincides with Jace relaxing minutely somehow, and Magnus finds his breath stuttering out in a painful gasp, because Alec sounds genuinely angry at his parabatai. 

In a small, dark corner of his soul he prefers to ignore ninety percent of the time, Magnus used to fear that Jace would always be Alec’s first priority, that he would always love his parabatai more than he loved Magnus. It was illogical, unfair, petty even. Jace was a piece of Alexander’s soul, and as much as Magnus found the blonde annoying and off-putting at the best of times, he would never, could never conceive of asking Alec to choose between the love of his life and the other half of his own soul. 

But here they are, the words “Magnus I love you” ringing in his ears, Alec’s parabatai half-dead on the floor, a terrified ball of self-hatred, the man he share’s a soul with unwilling to forgive a possibility he had no control over. 

Here they are, Alec willing to choose Magnus over Jace in a heartbeat, and all it makes him is sad. 

And so very, very angry. Alexander has the biggest heart of anyone Magnus has ever encountered. No one should have to make a choice like this, let alone the man he loves. 

The realization hits Magnus somewhat belatedly, impacting his heart as a physical burn, something mingled between joy and pain. His fingers tighten around Alexander’s jacket, drawing his boyfriend yet closer to him. If Jace had died…Magnus shook his head. This situation was so very, very fucked up. 

Jace’s sobs had quieted, his apologies tampering off, even as his body shook with ever increasing wobbles against Magnus’ restraining forearm. Fingers slackened from his collar, an arm dropped from Alec’s back. 

The mismatched eyes that met their gazes were distant, the pupils dilated and blurred. Shock, Magnus’ mind screamed loudly. 

Alec jerked his hand towards his parabatai. “Jace…” There was still so much anger in that tone, edged with something Magnus belatedly recognized as terror. He had seen Alexander’s fear for him written large across his breathless face outside the Institute, but there was something more, something he was missing here…

Jace flinched from his brother’s touch, his hands jerking into spasmodic fists, his face creasing with unexpected agony. Magnus’ eyes narrowed, flickering from Alec’s clenched jaw to Jace’s curled hands and white face and back. He was missing something…

“Alexander…” Magnus honestly has no idea what he was going to finish with. There are no words for situations like this, everything raw and emotional and broken. 

Alec’s face crumples for a moment anyway, his arm tightening around Magnus’ shoulders, his head dropping into the crook of the warlock’s neck. 

This time, it is Alec’s spare arm that cinches Jace into the midst of their embrace, and one of Magnus’ ringed hands that slowly cards through the shaking boy’s damp hair as sobs shake through both parabatai. 

Magnus always knew it was a packaged deal, falling in love with a parabatai. And if he ever had any doubts, Jace’s broken, “It’s okay Alec, all that matters is that you’re safe,” had taken care of them long ago.  
But this moment, their worlds on the edge of war, too broken souls pressed again his heart, this is always the moment that Magnus himself accepted that sometimes the best things truly did come in threes. 

\--  
Magnus has never seen Jace without his shirt on. It’s an odd thing to note, and odder still that it’s true, considering what kind of roommate a self-destructive Jace had made. 

It had been worse than Magnus, Ragnor, and Camille in their Romantic period phase combined. And Magnus still shudders at the mere thought of those memories. Suffice it to say, a disproportionate amount of his seventeen thousand had featured prominently during that period. 

And Jace is worse. 

But somehow, undoubtedly by design, the fact remains that Magnus has never seen Jace without his shirt. 

Until he finishes seeing Alec out, slamming all his wards down instead of up, his magic mixing in intricate patterns because Valentine had touched everything and it wasn’t safe and he couldn’t-

A quiet cough sent Magnus whirling in a dramatic circle, his magic flaring and warping towards the potential threat. 

Jace has never been tall by anyone’s standards, but curled up behind Magnus’ sofa, he looks truly small for the first time in the warlock’s memory. And how had he forgotten Valentine’s leverage? 

Magnus never found the courage to look at the ruin his magic turned his stepfather’s body into. And he has to believe, for reasons he is definitely not about to examine too closely, he has to believe that Valentine wasn’t aiming for deadly. That he cared at least a little about this boy he literally stole from his mother’s cooling body. 

Magnus snaps his head to the side, vomiting onto the floor, his throat burning with more than the smell. His stomach flipped over. He felt so dirty. Valentine had touched everything. 

“Are you alright?” Magnus brings a hand to his mouth, jerking towards the weak voice. Jace is standing behind him, an honest to goodness glass of cold water held tentatively in front of him. His jacket and shirt appear to have been seared into his skin in fragments, exposing large swaths of his torso to the flickering light of Magnus’ magic. It is a gruesome sight, Magnus’ stomach flipping threateningly, but his swallows the bile back again, because for a moment, he is so fucking grateful that that is all the damage was. 

Jace looks the way Magnus feels, raw and chewed up and shredded. His magic flares, the water turning into something odourless enough to only be vodka, before racing up to curl around Jace, the charred clothing melting into healed, slightly red skin. 

Magnus grasps the glass firmly, and takes a healthy swig. He hasn’t displayed this much unintentional, effortless power for centuries. Certainly not in front of some shadowhunter. 

Something flickers in the light playing across Jace’s torso, and that’s when Magnus remembers. 

I’m replaying the words of your son back to you. 

This wasn’t just some shadowhunter. As surely as that was a star on Jace’s torso, Magnus was looking at a real-live Herondale. 

Jace appears to be frozen, hesitancy written across every bunched muscle. But bless him if he hadn’t flinched from Magnus’ magic once this entire time. Magnus swigged more vodka, waving an absent hand at the mess on the floor. He’s contemplating calling Alexander to pick up his parabatai, because they’ve never discussed whether the boy actually still lives here, and Magnus so just wants to be alone right now, living reminders of the past safely away from his private space. 

And that’s when his eyes finally focus past the birthmark, and he realizes with a sinking feeling why he’s never seen Jace, blatant exhibitionist extraordinarie, half-naked before. 

“Shadowhunters aren’t supposed to scar.” It’s true. Iratzes aren’t perfect, but they are effective if applied with enough prompt judiciousness. 

Jace glances down at his chest, as if he’d forgotten he was still standing there, let alone that he was still only half-clothed. His jaw worked for a moment, his voice thick. 

“He liked me to have a reminder of the lesson. For next time.” 

It has been a long time since Magnus had anyone hold him while he was sick, since Ragnor, but since that thought is far from helping the nausea, and since Jace’s grip is warm and surprisingly gentle, and since they’ve made it to the kitchen sink this time, Magnus shuts his eyes tightly, and tries to forget everything around him. 

Then he wraps his hand around Jace’s, and comes away with something alarmingly sticky and wet, and he finally remembers awkwardly clenched fists that didn’t quite want to open, and how fucked up are there lives that the day’s events aren’t even the craziest thing that’s happened to them all this week. 

Magnus darted a hand out, lightening quick, capturing Jace’s wrist in a carefully firm grip. 

He coaxes the fingers to uncurl using magic, suppressing a wince at the flinch Jace gives. Then the fingers uncurl fully, and Magnus’ face blanks of all expression. 

Jace doesn’t so much as say ow. 

Valentine is so very, very dead. 

00

Healing Jace’s soul sword burns are…interesting. Partly because the stench of charred human flesh goes absolutely nowhere to helping how sick Magnus feels. 

Mostly because it is a Mortal Instrument, which means old and mean shadowhunter magic, and Magnus is not exactly being caught at his best here. 

Jace himself is the least of his problems, as he holds bizarrely still through the entire prolonged procedure, and there’s that nausea again. 

Magnus clenches his teeth and continues to resolutely wrap the curled hand in his lap with treated bandages. 

His fingers keep brushing over jagged ridges of something he pretends isn’t incorrectly healed bone, but Jace looks too out of it to offer yet another horrifying explanation. 

Magnus wishes he wasn’t grateful for that. 

Jace blinks down at his hand slowly. “I’m sorry we didn’t believe you.” A shrug, a breathy half-laugh. “You’d think I was beyond being taken in by his lies by now.” 

Magnus could say it wasn’t your fault. He could say I understand. He could vomit again. 

Instead, he does what he does best, and thinks about something else. This is so not the time to discuss how they will all cope with the latest tragic disaster that has befallen them all. 

Magnus swallows his ire along with his bristling magic, grasps Jace’s clenched jaw with a carefully firm grip, and gives his boyfriend’s parabatai a gentle shake. And he somehow finds the willpower to hold on through the flinch that follows, through Jace’s eyes widening, edges red and crusted, his face a heartbreaking study in naked astonishment. 

“Next time Jonathan, you will tell me about the third degree burns before I have to literally pry it out of you.”

His other hand is resting against the bright burst of star-shaped birthmark arching over Jace’s collarbone, his glamours have all fallen because he is so very angry, and so very tired, and so very, very old. His hair is mussed in all the wrong ways, Jace’s blood and puss streaked across his shirt. 

He wants to strangle Valentine. He wants to hug Alec and never let go. He wants to burn down the world and make something better and newer and nicer. He wants to scream. 

But he does none of those things. Because this boy in front of him, this shivering, red-eyed wreck of a teenager, this boy is somehow, against all the odds, a Herondale. 

This scarred, shivering form is the descendent of his friends, and for their memory, Magnus will restrain his magic. For Alec, he will heal Jace. 

But the part where he’ll burn Valentine to a crisp? That, that will be entirely for Jace. 

\--

“I wonder what they would have named me.”

Magnus looks up from placing the fifth cat dish on the floor, an operation that has both moved inside and become far less casual in recent times. Magnus suspects that is some kind of metaphor for life after a war, but he is too happy these days to pursue making it into one. 

Alec said I love you again that morning over coffee. After staying over. In their bed. 

Magnus suspects a horde of Valentines dancing naked across his living room couldn’t dampen his good mood. 

From his place on the floor, stroking cat number 2 and cat number 3, as the boy insisted on calling Matisse and President Drumpf, Jace looks rather strange to Magnus’ eyes. 

Alec strolls in quietly, his eyes soft with sleep. “What are we talking about?” They never discussed Jace moving back in, if his weeklong absence during the five-minute-war, as Simon calls it, counted as moving out, but somehow Alec took Jace showing up to eat the last of the cereal one morning as cause to start including his parabatai in the we’s and they’s of the loft. 

As he may have asked Maryse what kind of fruit Jace liked in his dessert on his most recent trip to the Institute, Magnus feels he has lost the right to judge. 

He stands from feeding Kitty-Kat and leans in for a morning kiss. “Jace was wondering what his parents would have named him?” 

After the third time Jace interrupted him and Alec at four in the morning to ask about Will Herondale, Magnus has given up attempting to be tactful or sensitive, and simply started including Jace’s birth family as one of the regular topics of conversation at the loft. 

So far, he’s noticed less need to lock up the knives, so he suspects it might be working. 

Even warlocks who are older than the dead sea don’t have an instruction manual for how to tell a kidnapped child about the parents who were murdered by the man who stole and subsequently raised the newborn son of his victims. 

Alec, for reasons that are either down to the advantage of the parabatai bond for judging Jace’s mood changes, or really, really great acting, finds this topic significantly less distressing than Magnus does. 

Which goes a ways to explain why he merely blinks once, snags the catfood from Magnus, and settles absently on the floor beside Jace, clearly giving the matter careful but casual thought. Magnus lets him at it, as the entire thing still makes him want to throw up on the best of days. 

“Well, what’s to say it wouldn’t have been Jonathan?” Jace drops Cat 2’s food all over himself and a disgruntled Matisse. Magnus is too startled to even bother to clean it up with magic, whirling back into the conversation with a startled, “What?!” 

They may have been so loud because he and Jace can apparently speak in sync now. May have. 

Magnus flashes a glance at Jace’s hands, double checking he hasn’t reopened his barely healed burns with that stunt. He has not. Magnus feels like he can breath again. 

His methods for coping with post-body-stealing PTSD may vary in their creativity. 

Alec looks impassively from one of them to the other, absently stroking Matisse’s ruffled fur free of kibble pieces. The loud purr this produces seems to fill the loft for a moment. 

“Well, wasn’t Magnus saying the other day that Jonathan was a common Herondale family name? Particularly since tradition is so important to them and everything?” 

Magnus…had not thought of that. Jace looks thoughtful, which is an improvement over gutted. 

The stolen Herondale boy proceeds to shrug philosophically and bump his shoulder into his parabatai’s side companionably, “Yeah, why not. Thanks man.” 

And that apparently is that. 

Magnus blinks at his pair of shadowhunters, momentarily non-plussed. This happens to him far more often than it used to. 

He attempts to rally. “Who wants to help me make a curry?” They have officially banned pasta from the premises long since. Simon even laminated a sign for the fridge and everything. 

Jace groans. “Can’t you just, you know, magic something up for us?” The blond waves his hand vaguely in the air as he says it. Magnus feels the boy never appreciates the things they do for him. 

“Alexander has requested that I…creatively acquire food for us slightly less often, and you live here and eat the food, so here we are, needing to cook.” Magnus strides towards the kitchen. “Take it up with your parabatai.” He pauses in the doorway, flinging a glare back at Jace. “After you’ve finished chopping the vegetables Jonathan.” 

Jace and Alec are calmly chopping carrots, Magnus stirring spices with rice and thinking with some satisfication, “Well, at least that’s one unpleasant topic resolved!”, when Jace chooses that moment to pause in his chopping and look thoughtfully at Alec. 

“But how do we know that’s what they would have named me? It’s not like there’s any way we could ever prove it one way or the other.” 

Two inquisitive shadowhunters pin Magnus with a persistent stare. He considers drowning them in the sauce. “No, I am not inventing time travel so pretty boy here can ask his dead parents about baby names!” 

Magnus almost bites his tongue in his haste to take the words back, dread pooling in his stomach as he shifts to regard Jace’s reaction to that more than uncalled for retaliation. 

He is surprised to find Alec peeling another carrot, face calm, eyes serene, and is that a smile quirking the edge of his parabatai’s mouth? 

Then he takes in Jace’s expression, and suddenly the world makes sense again. 

Because Jace? Jace is grinning like a loon, his teeth glinting orange with the remains of pilfered carrots behind his lips, and that explained why Alexander needed to keep peeling carrots. 

“Come on Magnus, I bet you’d do it for Alec in a heartbeat!” And yes, the cocky blonde idiot is actually teasing him, of all blessed things. 

Magnus doesn’t actually have a reply to that, so he settles for flicking carrot bits into Jace’s hair, mentally apologizing to his perfectly decorated walls when Jace retaliates by dumping the carrot bowl over Magnus’ head. 

And somewhere in the tangle of limbs and the remains of their dinner that follows, Magnus finds himself grinning his own insane grin. 

Because after months of wondering if Valentine Morgenstern had truly stolen the sensitive and vulnerable half of Alec’s soul, it is no little understatement for him to say, that it’s good to have Jace home. 

00

Magnus wakes up one morning to the feeling of Alec pressed close to his heart, and the sounds of Handel’s Messiah floating with angel-like beauty from the piano in his living room. He lays there contentedly, watching funnels of dust twirl in the sun filtering through the curtains, his hand stroking over Alec’s heartbeat, his ears caressed with every soft plonk of an ivory key. 

He waits until the music fades away, until Alec stirs luxuriously at his side, then lazily whips out a hand towards the door. 

Jace floats into the room with a roared, “Bane!”, incredulity warring with laughter as he’s unceremoniously deposited on the bed between Magnus and Alec. 

He’s shirtless, his scars as white and flashy as his star, but all Magnus can see is the bright smile reflected in his eyes. 

Magnus Bane has never been body slammed by a rancor before. Personally, he thinks more people should try it though. 

Because surprise, surprise, rancors give the best kisses in the universe.


End file.
